


more at stake

by defcontwo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Background Relationships, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aces’ management isn’t stupid, sure. They’ll hold onto their franchise-making star for as long he wants to stay, but where’s the fun in sticking around to rebuild all over again, in surrounding yourself with teenagers when you’re well into your mid-twenties, and starting over from scratch? </p><p>The way Georgia figures it, Kent Parson is about ready for a new challenge to come swinging his way. </p><p>Hell, she’s counting on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more at stake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bbbbbw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbbbbw/gifts).



> MERRY 'SWAWESOME SANTA CHRISTMAS, BO. you're the best, my friend, and I hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> thank you so so so much to sparklyslug for all beta work and encouragement.

These are the facts: 

The Las Vegas Aces have won the Stanley Cup three times, now. 2012, 2014, and 2016. Every two years, like clockwork, enough to be a pattern for all that the ink on their record books is barely dry. 

But this is the NHL, and everyone likes to see a dynasty crumble. Likes to pick it apart brick by brick until all of a sudden, you turn around and you find pieces of the old citadel everywhere but where they started out from. 

Wilson’s been with the Falconers for a handful of months. Banks is in San Jose, and everyone knows Antipov is on his way out, days from trading his Aces jersey for the Habs’ red, white, and blue. 

Aces’ management isn’t stupid, sure. They’ll hold onto their franchise-making star for as long he wants to stay, but where’s the fun in sticking around to rebuild all over again, in surrounding yourself with teenagers when you’re well into your mid-twenties, and starting over from scratch? 

The way Georgia figures it, Kent Parson is about ready for a new challenge to come swinging his way. 

Hell, she’s counting on it. 

 

The Falconers face the Ducks the same day the Aces take on the Kings, and it’s as good an opportunity as Georgia’s ever going to get, arranging to meet with Parson the next day at a small burrito place not far from UCLA campus. He’s not a movie star, and she’s not a musician, so in this town, no one’s gonna give a shit. 

It’s the middle of December, but the only way you’d know it is from the sparkly, silver tinsel strewn everywhere, tea lights in palm trees setting the scene for a classic California Christmas. 

Georgia orders herself a burrito with pork and extra guac, and seats herself in a booth in the back, slipping out her cell phone while she waits. Her work email is blowing up, as usual, and she’s got a handful of texts from Jack that she ignores, pointedly, refusing to give into the guilt that crawls up the back of her neck. He doesn’t know she’s here. She doesn’t know how he’d feel about her being here, exactly, but she does know that she’d be an idiot not to at least try her sales pitch on a two-time Art Ross winning generational talent. 

A text comes in from Jasmine, and Georgia smiles, softly, reflexively. “Good luck with the meeting, babe,” it reads, because maybe Georgia isn’t supposed to tell anyone she’s here, but those rules have never extended to her wife, and she’s not about to break that streak now. Georgia thumbs out a reply and then slips her phone in her bag just as Parson makes his way to her booth. 

“This shit isn’t in my diet plan, you know,” Parson says, as he slides down into the seat across from her. “We’re not off to a great start, here. I’m gonna be really pissy about my salad watching you eat a burrito.” 

“You’ll live,” Georgia says. “Thanks for coming.”

Parson shrugs. His face is blank, hair tucked away into a plain red cap, and that’s note-worthy enough, because everyone knows that he practically lives in those Aces floral snapbacks. “What can I say, I’m a friendly guy.” 

Georgia resists the urge to roll her eyes. She’s got years and years of experience in ignoring belligerent hockey player bullshit, and Parson has never exactly come across as the typical hockey player personality type, but he’s got a bullshit all his own, and she’s not going to waste her own time getting annoyed. She’s here to do her job. 

“Have you ever thought about making a move from the Aces?” Georgia asks baldly, because she can already tell that any kind of talking around why they’re both here isn’t gonna get her anywhere. 

“Does Jack know you’re here?” Parson returns, just as bluntly, sinking back into the booth, and crossing his arms over his chest. 

Feeling out potential trades is the kind of thing that no one is supposed to know about outside of management, and after eight years in the NHL, Parson must know it. 

How much swing does Zimmermann have behind closed doors, is what he’s really asking, here. And it’s true: Georgia considers Jack a friend, has come to admire his resolve and his quiet, irreverent humor over the past few years. He’s growing into a solid alternate for their aging captain; every time they’ve made the playoffs since signing him, it’s largely been on the back of his relentless, tireless determination pushing everyone in that locker room forward. 

And here’s the dirty reality of it: if she can pull this off, if she can complete the ultimate coup and nab Kent Parson for the Falconers, Jack Zimmermann’s dreams of wearing the C for the Falconers will probably go to pot. Parson’s been wearing the C since he was 19 years old, and while he’s got a reputation for being a bit of a party boy, Georgia’s never really been all that convinced. 

Georgia’s had the misfortune of running into all kinds of guys who don’t take their success seriously, who take the ease with which they’re treated like royalty for granted. It makes her grind her teeth, makes her ball her fists and remind herself that she’s not in grade school anymore, and she’s way too old to be getting into fights with dumb boys. 

You don’t get to be as successful as Kent Parson by being the kind of guy who doesn’t take this shit seriously. 

And Parson is all kinds of calculating. That much is obvious, from the way he eyes her across the booth, and gives nothing away. 

Good for him; she’s still pretty sure that she’s better at this than he is. 

“Jack Zimmermann isn’t a GM, last I checked,” Georgia says. 

“So that’s a no,” Parson says, nodding briefly at the waitress as she brings them their food, but otherwise not moving. 

“Eat your food, Parson,” Georgia says, mostly because then she can eat hers, and she doesn’t think she wants to keep talking to him when she’s edging just this close to hangry. 

They sit in silence for several minutes, and Georgia doesn’t get guac on herself, or the table, which is just typical. She only ever makes that kind of a fool of herself in front of Jasmine. Georgia laughs to herself at the thought of it, and Parson snaps his head up. 

“What?”

“Nothing, just….” Georgia starts. “Inside joke with my wife, sorry.” 

A strange look flashes across Parson’s face, something just this side of longing, before he shakes himself, and goes blank again. Georgia thinks of Jack, and the strange will-they won’t-they dance he’s been doing with that small boy from Georgia, and sighs. That answers that unanswered question, but it also opens up about twenty others. 

“Would you and Jack have a problem? Being on the same team?” 

Parson huffs a small laugh. “Martin, that’s a hell of a loaded question.”

Georgia shrugs. “You’re a professional. Known for it, even. I find it hard to believe that you’d let personal entanglements a decade old get in the way of a decision that could impact your career.” 

“No sugar coating, huh?” Parson says. “You know, I like you, Martin.”

“I’m honored,” Georgia says, with no small amount of sarcasm. “That still doesn’t answer my question. Because if you and Jack can’t be grown-ups, then I’m wasting my time, here. I’m not making a decision that will fuck up the dynamics in my locker room, I don’t care how good your stats are.” 

“You’re not wasting your time,” Parson says, slowly. “Like you said. That was all a long time ago.” He drags a hand through his infamous cowlick, and tugs at the ends. “What would the sales pitch be? How would this conversation have gone, if it weren’t for Jack?” 

Georgia straightens her back. “I’d have pointed out how your Stanley Cup winning teammates have all been traded away. I’d probably have talked about how Wilson’s been settling into the Falconers, at length, just to tug at your heartstrings a little. Everyone knows you two were close.” 

“Still are,” Parson interrupts. 

“ _Are_ close, then,” Georgia says. “Which makes my job a little easier, huh? In your entire career, the two players that you’ve played best with are Jeff Wilson and Jack Zimmermann. Sure, you don’t need someone else to score goals, but you’re a little old to be babysitting new kids who still flub up in front of the net.” 

“I’m proud of my rookies,” Parson says, flatly, and Georgia starts, surprised. His whole body language just turned defensive, and she was so sure that he would’ve seen them as a liability. 

It makes her want him on her team even more. 

“Then maybe it’s time to let them step out from underneath your shadow,” Georgia says, immediately switching tack. 

Kent hums, considering. “Providence is a real slow town, you know. Kind of a hard sell after Vegas.” 

“It’s sleepy,” Georgia agrees. “But who knows, you might even enjoy the change of pace. Less eyes on you all of the time.” 

And there’s that look again, the strange flash of longing. Good. That’s exactly what she was going for. 

“Would this be a decision that you’d have to….run by someone else?” Georgia says, gentler than she means to be, but she might as well dig right in while she’s at it. 

Parson smiles, a small, and private smile, and ducks his head. It’s a shock to see; it’s gotta be the most genuine thing she’s gotten out of him all afternoon. “Yeah, it is.”

“Alright,” Georgia says. “Well, you have my number. Do you think you’ll wind up using it?” 

“I might,” Parson says, which is about as good of an answer as she could expect out of him today. “But you should talk to Jack, first.” 

“And if he says no?” Georgia says. If Jack says no, well. Then she has some tough choices ahead of her, here, because Jack’s not the only member of the team, and Wilson’s been dropping anvil-sized hints about how he’d like to see Kent Parson on his line again. 

And besides, they really could use Parson’s creativity and speed. 

“Well,” Parson starts. “I still might wind up giving you a call. He’s a big boy; he can learn to deal with it.” 

“You’re putting the ball in his court, then,” Georgia says. 

Parson raises an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one holding the ball, Martin.” 

Georgia laughs, in spite of herself. She likes him, and it surprises her. She expected respect, but not this. But that doesn't mean she's gonna give him the satisfaction of letting him know it. 

“Shut the fuck up and get out of my sight, Parson.” 

He holds out a hand across the table, and she takes it. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, and then he’s slipping out of the booth, and through the door. It jangles after him. 

Georgia leans back in the booth, and watches him go. 

“Huh,” she mutters to herself. “Kent Parson, ladies and gentlemen.” 

 

Jasmine’s sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, hair up in a bun and glasses perched on the edge of her nose, with a couple of mugs of tea strewn around her like some sort of haphazard pentagram. If Georgia was a betting woman, which she usually is, she’d guess that most of those mugs are half-full, and all of them cold. 

Georgia toes off her shoes, and drops her suitcase to the floor with a thump, and then picks her way through folders and paperwork to drop down onto the couch. Jasmine leans back against her legs with a sigh, grabbing hold of Georgia’s left hand to press a small, light kiss into the palm. 

“How’d it go, Georgie?” Jasmine murmurs, tilting her head back. Georgia sweeps away the hair falling into Jasmine’s eyes, and smiles. It’s good to be home. 

“Could be a good fit,” Georgia says. “Could be a godawful fit. Kinda depends.” 

“On what?” Jasmine asks, eyes fluttering shut as she puts more weight back on Georgia’s legs, and it’s a sure sign as any that any work that was getting done is over for the night. 

Georgia digs out her phone, and pulls up the contact labeled “Jack.” It’s a risky ploy, sure. But she’s built her whole fucking life on risky ploys, on gutsy decisions and all the hard work to back it up. 

She knows how to spot a good gut instinct, has a good feel for when it’s gonna all work out. 

“On the next five minutes,” Georgia says, taking a deep breath, and pressing call.


End file.
